


Change My Mind

by calmlikesurrender



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slight Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:29:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmlikesurrender/pseuds/calmlikesurrender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn doesn't write poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change My Mind

Zayn doesn’t write poetry-

He’s not some grade school girl with a crush.

But he traces Os into the hard knobs of Liam’s hipbones, sinking into him so slow Liam starts to beg. And  _those_  words.

Zayn snags them and holds on. Gets a little lost, a little breathless. 

He doesn’t write poetry, but maybe he’d sketch something out. Something beautiful. Maybe easy, or tragic, or forgetful. Maybe find someone who wouldn’t mind inking it right between his ribs. Make it hurt, like him. Make it comforting, like him.

Make Zayn need it.

Like a savannah, Liam’s fists’ tight grips, like a sandstorm. The way Liam can’t look him in the eyes the next morning. How he fiddles with his keys, lube and Zayn’s dried come still flaking on his inner thighs.

“Sorry?”

Like an orator. Zayn wants to clap for him. Bow, give him a standing ovation. But then he’d have to pull the sheets back, and he’s got nothing on except a few bruises. All Liam’s. Some from his hands, some from his words.

Zayn’s counting backwards in his head from one hundred, waiting patiently for him to leave so he can wobble around the room on his spent legs. Gather what’s left of his dignity from the floor, scoop it up with his scattered clothing. A few half-empty bottles. Cigarettes stamped out right in the rug, halos of burnt black soot and fake fur. 

“Zayn?”

He tries three times before walking away.

Yeah, Zayn would make it permanent. Make it raw. Tell them to lay it deep. Scar him up like a Bond extra.

Or  _the_  Bond. He wouldn’t mind a gun right about now. Or a fancy knife, maybe. Some shiny new thing that’s got poison in the handle.

But it’s how Liam breathes that makes him crazy. How he eats. How he sounds shifting under the covers. How he lies back with his head on his arms. How he tells Zayn he needs him. How he tells Zayn he needs more time. How he tells Zayn he’s lost.

 _But you’re a lighthouse_ , he wants to say. You’re a tempest. You’re a hurricane. You’re Lear’s third act.

And he wants to open himself up, too. Let Liam feel it for once.

But he never tells him, he just traces the knots along Liam’s spine. Traces how stretched his rim is around Zayn’s cock, how he whimpers when he tries to make him take it all the way. Tracing the words he’s hissing into the pillow. Traces him

begging. Presses his

palm flat on Liam’s back,

spreads his fingers. Slips inside.

Ribs. Cracks. Gaps.

How he’s made of the same energy, but Zayn can’t see  _himself_  in this.

This is a force of nature- Liam clenching down around him, his grip on the sheets. Rocking back.  

This is the most frustrating thing he’s ever tried to make sense of. This is a rhythm he’s gotten so used to, he almost ignores it. It’s second nature the way Liam comes knocking around midnight with his tail between his legs, and Zayn eases him open. Spends an hour making Liam forget his own name, then waits patiently while he forgets Zayn’s, too. Dresses, slips away.

Harry tells him he’s asking for disaster.

Zayn tells him to mind his own damn business.

“I know what I’m doing. We-” Liam’s taste still in his mouth, blood and come dried under his fingernails, “We’re okay.”

Harry gives him a look like he’s a stubborn child, “Someone always gets hurt.”

But Liam’s forever. He’s the end of the world.

            His skin soaked with sweat. Eyes closed. Gagging when Zayn thrusts up into his mouth. Wrapping his fist around him at the base, the other hand on his hip to keep him still.

            “No, no, no.  _Shhh_ , come on,” Zayn’s whispering, soothing, trailing his thumb up Liam’s cheek, “You can take it, yeah? I know you can,” he says, wiping at his tears. Thrusting up into him again.

            And then he’s lying in bed, spent and raw and just tired enough not to care when Liam’s gathering his things. Going about it quietly like he’s trying not to wake Zayn up.

            “You don’t have to go,” he whispers.

            Liam stops. Just long enough to breathe in deep, reconsider. Decide on the easiest option.

            “I’ll- see you,” he says, swallows, “Tonight?”

            Zayn only nods.

            And when Liam’s gone, he picks himself up and straightens, almost diligently pathetic. Like he’s getting the room ready to be wrecked again.

He likes to think that this will be the moment.

“I love you.” Easy. Clockwork. But he opens his mouth, and, “Fuck me,” spills out first. Then something that sounds suspiciously like, “Baby.”

All he wants to do is slow a moment down to pins and needles and make it come so close to stopping, he nearly explodes. Or maybe just get Liam to stay the night.

But he can’t find the words. Or the words can’t find him.

Or there aren’t any words, and he’s only a little boy with a pen and paper trying to make sense of something that never made sense at all. 


End file.
